


away from all other stars

by scheherazade



Series: Autumn [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-23
Updated: 2009-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan remembers learning, when he was five years old, that wishes have to be kept secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	away from all other stars

Stan remembers learning, when he was five years old, that wishes have to be kept secret.

The summer evening was warm, so his brother had opened the window of their shared bedroom, hoping to catch a cool breeze. Jonathan stuck his head outside for a moment, and Stan tried to follow suit; standing on his tiptoes, he was barely tall enough to put his forearms on the windowsill and peer out into the settling dusk.

"Look," Jon said suddenly, pointing up toward the sky. "First star of the night. You'd better make a wish."

Stan looked up at the speck of a star, barely visible against the glow of yellow light drifting up from the town spread out below. "What do I wish for?" he asked.

"Anything you want."

Stan thought about it for a moment. "Okay," he said. "I wish―"

"No, no!" Jon cut him off immediately. "You can't say a wish out loud! That ruins the whole thing."

Stan looked up at his brother, frowning. "Why?"

"That's just how it works," said Jon. "You can't tell anyone about your wish, because then it won't come true."

"So I have to keep it a secret?"

"And you can't tell anyone about it afterwards either. Got it?"

Stan thought about it for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. "Okay." He looked up at the star again, the first star of the evening, closed his eyes, and made a wish.

He doesn't remember what he wished for on that night. Eighteen years later, lying on a hotel bed in Toronto, trying to slow his racing heartbeat, he only remembers his brother's words: _You can't tell anyone._

Roger sighs, his face buried in the curve of Stan's shoulder, his breath warm against sweat-damp skin―and Stan lets his eyes drift shut. This is infidelity; he knows that. He's always known, but he still catches himself wondering if it's really so wrong to want this. To want the man lying beside him, to want to stay like this for just a little longer...

Too soon, he feels the mattress shift beneath him as Roger gets up, hears the click of the bathroom door closing, the sound of running water. The air conditioning is suddenly cold against his skin, making him shiver.

Minutes later, Roger emerges from the bathroom, silent, not meeting Stan's eyes as he picks his clothes up off the floor. Stan watches him moving about the room―so carefully, as if he holds in his hands the broken pieces of himself, rather than a shirt, a pair of socks―and feels something secret in his heart threatening to spill into words.

He wants to turn back time, erase today and yesterday and every day that lead up to this moment, all the defeats, all the heartbreak. He wants to hold Roger close, hold him together. He wants to say, _It's not the end_ , and _I'm sorry_ , and _I'm here for you_ , and _I_...

Roger combs his fingers through his hair, briefly checks his reflection in the mirror, hesitating just a fraction of a second too long before walking back to the bed. He touches Stan's face, very lightly, almost as if afraid―but of what, he doesn't know.

"I have to go," Roger says. "It's getting late."

Stan looks up at him, wants to reach out and catch hold of Roger, tell him, _Don't leave, please, don't leave_ , but instead hears himself whisper, "Okay. See you around."

Roger smiles faintly, "Yeah."

Then he's gone, and the silence is loud in his wake. Stan closes his eyes again, one hand resting against his own cheek, the ghost of Roger's touch still vivid on his skin.

-

The skies in Beijing are clearer than he might've expected, but the light pollution still makes it almost impossible to see the stars.

"What are you thinking of?"

Stan tears his gaze away from the night sky, turning away from the window to find Roger smiling at him. An answering smile tugs automatically at the corners of his lips.

"Nothing," he says, watching as Roger leans an elbow on the windowsill.

Echoes of conversation drift through the half-open door, connecting the kitchen to the rest of Roger's apartment suite. They both turn their heads―almost simultaneously―at the sound of Mirka's voice, surprisingly close for a moment, before fading away again into the general chatter.

"Enjoying your birthday so far?" Stan asks, nodding in the direction of the living room, where a small group of friends has gathered to celebrate the event.

Roger shrugs. "I'm thinking more about the tennis," he says.

Stan doesn't ask which player Roger is thinking of.

Everyone will come looking for them in a few minutes, but until then, at least, they can linger here―just the two of them, standing together beside the window, Roger glancing out at the darkened sky, Stan watching him from the corner of his vision.

Roger's hair is growing out again, curling softly against the base of his neck. His eyes are dark, and there are shadows of frown lines on his brow, but his profile is still the image of a god.

Stan feels his heart clench painfully as the thought comes, unbidden: _He's beautiful_.

Roger chooses that exact moment to turn his head. He looks right at Stan, and Stan freezes, heart pounding and feeling too much like a deer caught in the headlights.

Roger frowns slightly, leaning closer and reaching out to place his hand on Stan's arm. "What's the matter?"

 _I love you_. The words are on his tongue. Stan swallows them, forces himself to step away before Roger can catch hold of his arm. Roger freezes for a moment, hand still outstretched, but he recovers quickly and falls back into a neutral pose. A questioning look flickers in his eyes.

Stan turns his back to the window, takes a deep breath. "I should get going."

"Already?"

"It's late. I'm kind of tired."

"If you're sure." Roger lets the pause go on for just a beat too long before adding, "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

It's not a question―it shouldn't be a question―but somehow, right then, it sounds like one.

Stan studies the tiles under his feet, looking anywhere except at Roger. "Yeah," he says. "Of course."

He makes his escape quickly, gives his excuses to Mirka and is out the door in a minute flat. As soon as he's outside, a breath he didn't even realize he was holding rushes from his lungs, leaving him trembling around the edges and not altogether steady on his feet.

Blood is pounding in his ears. His head aches; his chest hurts.

He looks up at the sky, searching for something, anything. A star. A sign. He thinks he might be going insane. He can feel it gnawing away at his insides, this wanting without knowing what it is that he wants―needs―so desperately.

But the sky is dark, the night broken only by the hazy, yellow glow of the lamps lining the walkways.

Stan rubs his hand over his face, shuddering, feeling suddenly like a stranger in his own skin.

-

Days later, he still isn't completely sure why he said those words.

It might have had something to do with the look in Roger's eyes when they met on the practice courts, so soon after the quarterfinal match that the loss was still a raw, open wound.

It might have been the way Roger covered Stan's hand with his own when Stan touched his shoulder gently, almost afraid Roger would fall apart right before his eyes.

It might have been the way that, during a break in the midst of practice, sitting on the bench with his arms on his knees and his head hanging, Roger said, "Sorry, Stan," and sounded as if he really meant it, as if he had anything to apologize for.

Or maybe it had something to do with the ache that had begun to flare up in Stan's chest each time he thought of Roger, making it hard to breathe properly. It had been a whole week, and it wasn't getting any better. If anything, it was getting worse. Everyone has a breaking point; Stan was afraid that he was about to discover his own.

Maybe that was why.

Later, as they were walking back to the locker rooms, through empty corridors, deserted spaces, their hands brushed against one another―and instead of pulling away, Roger laced their fingers together.

Stan literally felt his heart miss a beat. He glanced at Roger, hardly daring to breathe, and suddenly it seemed inevitable.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Roger asked.

Stan swallowed, slowed his steps a bit. "I've been meaning to ask you..."

"Hmm?" Roger looked up at him, a slightly bemused look in his eyes as he sensed Stan's deceleration and opted to just stop altogether.

"If..." His heart was in his throat. Stan swallowed. "If I said...I love you..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence in the silence that had fallen. The ground was trying to rush up at him. Stan closed his eyes a moment, steadying himself.

When he finally dared look up, he found Roger staring at him with an unreadable expression. Stan had to clench his hands into fists to stop their trembling. His mouth was suddenly dry.

"Sorry... I don't know why― Never mind," he mumbled, looking down at his feet. "It's nothing."

He turned and began walking again, hoping that Roger would follow and not say anything, just pretend this never happened―

"Wait."

The grip on his wrist was firm, forcing Stan to turn and face his captor. Roger's gaze was fixed on him, eyes dark and serious and still unreadable.

"It's obviously not nothing," Roger said, in a voice so gentle that Stan almost wanted to hit him. "You don't have to make excuses, you know. Just tell me, Stan."

He was probably expecting an explanation―or at least a deflection, a story. Stan suddenly didn't feel like any of the above.

"Fine," he said, voice not nearly as steady as he would've liked. "You asked."

Then, before either of them could second-guess himself, Stan reached up, tangled his hands in Roger's hair, and kissed him on the lips.

Stan saw Roger's eyes flutter shut, even as his own did a moment later. He felt Roger's other hand resting against his hip, felt Roger pulling him closer.

It wasn't their first kiss―not by any stretch of the imagination―but it was different. Because before this, their kisses were always hot and hungry, leading up to some greater destination, insignificant in themselves, like a passing bit of scenery. Those kisses didn't mean anything.

This, on the other hand... It would have been a perfectly chaste kiss, but for the intensity. Everything―all his frustration, his joy, his sorrow, his hopes, his fears―poured into that single gesture, and suddenly it was as if his heart had been laid bare.

 _I love you._

Stan broke the kiss, gasping for breath. "I..." He glanced up and down the corridor, but it was still empty. No one had seen them. Roger was still looking at him with that dark-eyed expression. Stan shook his head, frantically searching for something to say. "I... I'm sorry..."

But he got no further than that, because Roger suddenly wrapped both arms around his waist, pulling him close. Then Roger was kissing him again, and Stan could only hold on, overwhelmed by the tide of emotion crashing through his heart.

That was three days ago.

Three days ago, that kiss meant something―everything―and Stan was content to let it be that way.

But three days later, with too many lingering looks between them, awkward moments balanced on the line between lies and reality, that unanswered question tarnishing even the gold of their doubles victory―three days later, this silence is no longer enough.

Because now, watching Roger watch the men's singles gold medal match, his eyes following Rafael Nadal's every move, Stan can't help but wonder if this―if any of this―ever meant anything at all.

-

He runs into Mirka, right before the US Open.

It's early evening, and he's taking a short walk to explore the streets surrounding the hotel where he's staying. Stan enjoys the sights and sounds of new places, different places, and it also helps take his mind off of certain other things.

But Murphy's Law has a way of hitting you over the head when you least expect it.

He's waiting for a traffic light to change when he hears someone calling his name. He turns, and there's Mirka, waving at him from the backseat window of a bright yellow taxi cab. His stomach twists, and he has no choice but to walk over, pasting a smile on his lips.

"Hey," says Mirka. "Where are you headed?"

"Just taking a walk." Stan notices that she's alone, and isn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Have you eaten yet?" When he shakes his head, Mirka unlocks the car door and gestures for him to get in. "Come on, then. I was just heading out to dinner."

Stan hesitates. He and Mirka are good friends, but they haven't spoken since the summer. Stan can't help but think of Roger, of what Mirka has meant to Roger, what Roger means to him...

The light turns green, and the cab driver yells at him to get in or get lost. Mirka looks into his eyes. "Come on, Stan."

Stan pulls the door open, gets in, and the car is speeding away almost before he has the door closed again. Mirka smiles at him as he puts on his seatbelt.

"I hope you like Thai food," she says.

The restaurant is a small, family-run affair. Mirka knows the owner, apparently, and they are shown to a corner booth, which affords them some privacy. Nothing on the menu looks familiar to Stan, so Mirka orders while he sips at a cup of jasmine tea―or what passes for jasmine tea, anyway. It tastes more of teabag than jasmine.

After the waiter leaves, they spend some minutes discussing the dishes on the menu, which mostly involves Mirka telling him about spices with strange names, and Stan nodding along once in a while.

There is a slight lull when that conversation trails off, leaving them glancing around the restaurant, avoiding eye contact. Then Mirka folds her hands around her teacup, fingers conspicuously absent of any jewelry.

"So," she begins anew. "How've you been?"

"Well enough," Stan replies. The look in Mirka's eyes tells him that this isn't going to remain a nice, neutral exchange of small talk for long. "Everything's been pretty good lately."

Mirka nods. "Did you get a chance to go back to Saint-Barthélemy before coming here?"

The question catches him slightly off balance. "For a few days," he admits, unable to think of a better reply. Not for the first time, he grudgingly admires Mirka's talent for steering a conversation. "But it wasn't much time. You know how the tour is. Everyone's always on the road, you know?"

Mirka nods again, understanding. "It must be hard on Ilham," she says, and though her voice is perfectly conversational, Stan cringes on the inside. "How is she doing, by the way? I haven't seen her in ages."

"She's fine," Stan says, carefully measuring his words. He feels slightly queasy; the not-jasmine tea isn't helping.

Mirka looks at him for what seems a long time, her tea slowly going cold with every tendril of fading steam. "You guys are doing well?"

"Yeah. As well as can be expected."

He immediately regrets the way he phrased that, because Mirka's next words are, "Have you talked to her...about Roger?"

Stan puts down his teacup, twisting his hands together under the table instead.

"No," he says after a moment, after considering denying that anything ever happened with Roger―because, really, what's the point? Mirka already knows. She doesn't condemn him for it; she just watches him, waiting, her eyes unflinching and her expression calm.

"Are you going to?" she asks.

Stan looks away. He doesn't want to talk about this, not right now, and preferably not ever. But if anyone has the right to interrogate him, then it's Mirka―Mirka, with her selfless love and unwavering faith; her understanding and her gentleness; her tired smile and her steady eyes, trapping him with the force of her gaze.

He swallows, willing his voice to remain steady as he says, "I don't know."

The silence following his words is broken by the arrival of their food, and everything springs into stilted motion as plates and cups are shuffled around the table to make room for the dishes. It all smells wonderful, but Stan doesn't feel hungry in the least.

Mirka scoops rice onto his plate and urges him to eat, so he does, slowly, each mouthful tasting like plastic.

They say no more of the previous topic for some time, until they've both swallowed enough food for this to pass as a meal. Stan is picking at a lump of curried tofu when Mirka says quietly, "You owe her the truth, you know."

He doesn't meet her eyes. "I know. You don't have to tell me that."

"Stan, I'm only trying to help. For all our sakes." Her voice is edged with weariness and an old, old sorrow. Stan feels a sudden tug on his heartstrings, thinking of what Mirka herself has already gone through.

He doesn't want to do this to her; he doesn't want to do this to either of them. Mirka and Ilham deserve so much better than this, his selfishness―because that's what it is, isn't it? Just selfishness.

If he's honest with himself, Stan knows that Roger doesn't need him. Roger has never needed him, and never will, because Roger has the world in his hands, greatness written on his palm. Roger has Rafael Nadal, despite the crucible of this summer. Their legend will continue―and even when it fades, when the world has moved on with its legends and Roger is just Roger again, Mirka will be there with her kindness and her patient love.

It's like some well-drafted story, everything perfectly planned.

Maybe there will be days when they'll look back and wonder, _What if? What if?_ But each of them carries his own history of grief, of love and regret. Nothing can change that; it's just how life works.

His lips seem to move on their own, and he hears himself saying, "It doesn't have to be like this. It shouldn't. If we just...all forget about this..." _Forget about Roger._ Impossible―but he can pretend, for their sake. Stan takes a breath and exhales slowly. "It would be better that way, wouldn't it?"

He hazards a glance at Mirka, and finds that she's studying him, her eyes intent―and resigned. "Stan," she says after a moment, voice pitched so low that it's almost indecipherable, "we both know how you feel about him."

There is a sudden silence.

"Don't say that."

"What's the use in denying it?"

"I'm not." He catches her eyes briefly, knowing that Mirka would understand, even if she doesn't agree. There is a deep, lingering ache in his chest, making it harder to breathe. "There are just some things that shouldn't be said, you know? Because you can't take them back."

Mirka lowers her gaze, a lock of hair falling over her eyes. She shakes her head. "I know. I know, but..."

Then she's reaching across the table, covering his hand with her own, and Stan is shocked at how cold her skin is, even after so long in the brightly lit restaurant.

She says, "I just wish there were some way for all of us to be happy."

-

The days grow shorter as summer slips away, turning the first leaves red and brown.

Roger is going on to Shanghai, Mirka with him. Stan is heading home on the next flight out of Paris. He's glad, in a way; Mirka has been giving him too many meaningful looks lately. He and Roger have hardly spoken since the Davis Cup play-offs.

They said they would call each other, back in September, even though Stan knew perfectly well that Roger would send text messages and emails, but he wouldn't call. Because that's just how Roger's mind works.

 _I'm in Madrid,_ Roger would text him. _When's your flight?_ or _Dinner tomorrow?_ or _Hope you're well._

His inbox is filled with these notes, these nothings. Stan replies to every text message, declining invitations, exchanging pleasantries, nothing for nothing. He always means to delete them afterwards, but each time he stops himself, waits another day, still hoping...

He's not even sure what he hopes for anymore. He just hopes.

His season is over, with this second round loss to Berdych, and the off-season stretches out before him, suddenly filled with too much time and too much silence.

Glancing into the mirror, later that night, Stan feels all too aware of his own finitude, the confines of his skin, the markers of mortality. There are more lines on his face, the wrinkles on his forehead noticeable even when he smoothes away the frowns.

It's not something he really wants to think about, so he turns away and returns to packing. He's almost finished rolling up his shirts when his cell phone buzzes. Another text from Roger.

 _Have a safe trip. Call me sometime._

Stan might have laughed at the irony, if only this weren't happening to him. He snaps the phone shut, throws the rest of his things into his bags, then calls Ilham to let her know he'll be home tomorrow.

"I'll come pick you up," she tells him. "You feeling all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Okay," is all she says. Stan can hear Hercules barking in the background, and Ilham hangs up to go take him for a walk.

Stan turns off his cell phone and goes to bed early, trying and failing to remember the last time he felt so completely alone.

-

November, and Lausanne is already dusted with snow, a comforting sort of monochrome that softens the edges of buildings, if nothing else.

The park bench is growing colder the longer he sits there, his skin dry and chapped from the biting wind. There's a cup of coffee in his hands, still mostly full, but he's already sick of its bitter taste. He can't even remember why he bought it in the first place.

Stan scrubs a hand over his face, checks his watch. Three thirty-two. It's been six hours since Ilham threw him out of the house.

He woke up a bit before nine that morning, and found her side of the bed already empty. He pulled a sweater over his pajamas and padded to the kitchen. Ilham was there, sitting at the table with her hands wrapped around a mug, her eyes lowered, staring at the dregs of tea.

"Hey," Stan mumbled, still not completely awake.

"Morning."

"You want toast?"

She gave him a shrug, which he took as a yes. Stan popped two pieces of bread into the toaster, and nearly tripped over Hercules, who was hiding behind the counter, watching him with baleful eyes. Carefully stepping around the dog, Stan went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

He had just started to take a sip when Ilham said, "Stan, we need to talk."

Her voice punctured the lingering haziness of sleep, and he looked toward Ilham warily. Her lips were set in a firm line. Stan felt his stomach twist into knots.

"What is it?" He hoped his voice sounded normal.

"Sit down first," said Ilham.

"The toast―"

"Forget the toast." Her voice had an edge to it that reminded Stan of his mother. He walked slowly to the table and sat down, across from her, putting the glass on the table between them.

"So what is it?"

"Look at me, Stan."

He looked at her, then quickly looked away again. He suddenly knew what was coming, could almost hear the words before Ilham spoke them:

"I want to know what's been going on between you and Roger Federer."

Stan felt his hands go cold. "Why this, all of a sudden?" he asked, unable to think of anything better to say.

"You were talking in your sleep last night. You kept saying his name."

Stan's mind leapt to the fragmented memories of his dreams, and he felt a blush creeping across his cheeks as he remembered a few details. Of all the ways to be found out...

Ilham gripped the mug of tea so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. "But to be honest, I've been wondering for a while," she said. "I mean, you weren't exactly subtle."

He swallowed, the blush fading as quickly as it had come. "Ilham," he began, then paused. "Look," he tried again, "it's not―"

"Don't say it's not what I think it is!" Her words were like a slap across the face. Resentment smoldered in her eyes, along with betrayal, and something suspiciously like resignation. "I _know_ , all right? I can tell. The whole damn world can probably tell, for god's sake, so can we just get this over with already?"

A sudden silence descended on the kitchen, broken only by a faint, metallic ring when the toast popped out of the toaster, slightly burnt on one side. Neither of them paid it any attention.

"What do you want me to do?" Stan asked.

Ilham looked down at her hands. "Did you sleep with him?"

He owed her the truth, even if it was too late. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Are you? Are you really sorry that you slept with him?"

Stan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Finally, he whispered, "I don't know."

"Does he call you?"

"No."

"Do you miss him?"

"Ilham―"

"Did you ever love me, Stan?"

"Of course I did!"

Then, realizing what he just said―what he just affirmed―Stan squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down a cringe. _Shit_ , he thought, and again, _Shit._

Ilham made a strangled sort of sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "You did. Of course you did." She was shaking her head. "Four years... Four goddamn years―and then, Roger Federer."

She said the name as if it were a curse, spat it out and gave Stan a look that pinned him to his chair. He could only sit there as Ilham heaved a long, shuddering sigh, then got up, went to the counter and plucked the cooling toast out of the toaster.

But instead of bringing it to the table, she turned and threw their breakfast into the trash.

She washed her hands at the sink. Her back was still turned to him when she said, "I think you'd better leave for a while."

Stan didn't argue with her―what right did he have?―just went and got changed, threw some clothes into a backpack, took his wallet, his keys, his phone, and left the house.

The logical plan would have been to call his parents, stay with them for a few days. But his parents would want to know what happened, why he and Ilham were fighting, why he sounded so ashamed, why, why, why...

He didn't want to deal with it. He didn't even want to think about it. He would rather sit outside on a park bench, on a chilly November afternoon, with snow on the ground and endings in the air―so here he is now. Not yet four in the afternoon, and already his life is coming apart at the seams.

Stan thinks of how things could have been, should have been, thinks of how sorry he is for all the stupid things he said, the choices he made.

And he wishes...he wishes...

-

He dreams of Ilham.

 _Are you sorry? Are you?_ She sweeps everything off the table and into the trash―teacups, silverware, towels, magazines. The evidence of their life together, accumulated through long hours and days and years.

 _Did you ever love me, Stan?_

She turns to him, her gaze full of accusation and sorrow, and he wants to say something, wants desperately to tell her, _I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry._

But suddenly, instead of Ilham, he's looking at Hercules, ears laid back, a whine building low and deep in his throat as he stares at Stan with reproachful eyes.

Those eyes are dark, like Mirka's, and he can still hear Mirka's voice. _Come on, Stan. Come on. I know how you feel about him._

But Jon said, _Don't tell anyone._ The skies are scattered with stars, but Jon is saying, _You can't tell anyone._

Then he's back in that hotel room, the walls shutting out the sky. Roger is kissing him, touching his cheek, fingers trailing down his jaw to his neck, his chest, the calluses on his hands dragging against sensitive skin.

 _Stan,_ Roger says, his words a mere breath between their lips. _Oh, Stan._

Stan opens his mouth, knows that he's going to say, _I love you, I love you I love you I love you_ ―but no sound comes out.

Instead, he hears Roger saying, _I have to go, I'm sorry, I have to go_ ―

Stan wakes with a strangled gasp, sitting up so quickly that his vision blurs for a moment. His heart is pounding, his breathing ragged, disorientation a sharp taste in his mouth.

It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is, why the sheets are heavy and unfamiliar against his skin.

He looks around the hotel room, breathing slowly to get his heart rate under control. His jacket is thrown carelessly over a chair; his wallet and cell phone on the nightstand; his backpack against the foot of the bed, still half-open, clothes from yesterday lying beside it on the floor.

Thin afternoon sunlight hovers at the edge of the curtains, and the digital clock reads 4:27 p.m. He stares at it, as if waiting for the machine to change its mind and tell him something more meaningful instead. It doesn't, of course, because it's only a clock.

Stan falls back against the pillows, one arm thrown across his eyes.

He remembers wandering the streets of Lausanne last night, until all but the most determined lights began to dim, before eventually stumbling upon this little, out-of-the-way hotel. The receptionist gave him a long, hard look when he checked in―for a moment, Stan was afraid she recognized him―but in the end she said nothing, just handed him his key card and wished him a pleasant stay.

He remembers lying awake for hours, watching the shadows grow lighter as dawn crept through the window, getting up to draw the curtains, falling back onto the bed, tangling the sheets around himself until he finally fell asleep sometime before noon.

He remembers waiting, hoping for a call―and quickly sits up, reaches for his phone. But the screen flashes blankly at him. No messages. Nothing.

He lets the phone drop, watches it bounce slightly on the bed beside him.

This is insane. He should just call Ilham already―call her and apologize, tell her how much of an idiot he was, beg her to take him back. It's been a whole day. He should call her.

But he doesn't―he can't―because it's not Ilham he's thinking of when he hugs a pillow to his chest, presses his face against it, eyes closed, trying to ignore how it gives way all too easily, a poor shadow of intimacy.

Roger is thousands of miles away in Shanghai, another time, another place, and Stan misses him―misses him so much that the pain is a concrete, physical thing, as if some part of himself has been ripped away, leaving the edges still ragged and bleeding.

It's as if he's a teenager again, hormonally imbalanced and head-over-heels in love―except he's not fifteen anymore, and this is too messed up to be called love.

None of it makes any sense.

His phone trills once, twice to tell him know he has a new text message. After a small tussle with the tangled sheets, he locates the phone and flips it open without thinking.

 _Hey, how are you?_ Roger writes. _It feels like we haven't talked in months. I miss you, Stan._

He stares at the screen, at those words.

Somehow, he manages to not throw the phone against the opposite wall. His hands are shaking, and it takes him ten minutes before he is finally able to put the phone down, slip out of bed and head to the bathroom to shower.

The water is scalding, pushing the barrier between discomfort and pain, but he doesn't care, just lets it beat down on his shoulders until every thought has been burned from his mind, and all that's left are the rivulets running down his face, following invisible lines.

He takes his time drying off, brushes his teeth, shaves and changes into clean clothes. His skin is pink from the shower, steam curling around the bathroom, and yet, inexplicably, he still feels cold.

The clock on the nightstand blinks 5:02 p.m. when he sits down on the bed again, hand curling slowly around his cell phone. He mentally calculates the time difference between Lausanne and Shanghai, finds he can't recall the exact number, but knows it must be around midnight where Roger is.

His fingers hover over the keypad. He considers texting back, _Ilham threw me out of the house_ , but it seems kind of pointless. Irrelevant, even.

 _Go to sleep, Roger_ , he writes, and that's neutral enough. But then he gets stuck, unsure of where to go from there. He tries, _I'm doing well. Good luck on your match tomorrow_ , except that doesn't sound right at all, so he deletes it, starts over.

He's beginning to feel lightheaded, probably due to the lack of sleep and not having eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. It's hard to think clearly. His hands seem to move on their own, pressing buttons on the keypad, and suddenly the words are there: _I miss you, too._

He stares at the screen for a moment, wondering where that came from―and knowing the answer all too well.

But why not, he thinks suddenly, bitterness audible even to himself. Why the hell not.

He hits "send", tosses the phone down beside him and covers his face with his hands, elbows resting on his knees. This is all so fucked up, and he doesn't even know whom to blame. This is just all so fucked up...

That litany is still running through his head when his phone goes off, blaring some English pop song Roger once set as a ring tone for himself, so long ago. It was probably meant as a joke. Stan never changed it, though, didn't even remember about it until now, because Roger never called him.

Except Roger is calling him now, and all Stan can think of is, _It's midnight in Shanghai_. It's midnight, and Roger is calling him.

He picks up the phone and doesn't wait for Roger to start talking, can't afford to, because it's been months and months and Stan is no longer sure what will happen when he hears the sound of Roger's voice.

So he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, "Roger, why in _hell_ are you still awake?"

He means to keep going, but Roger interrupts him with a well-timed, "I was an idiot, Stan," and then, "I'm sorry."

Stan swallows. His throat works silently, and he wants to―needs to―say something, end this call as quickly as possible. But he can't, because dear _god_ he's missed hearing that voice―missed it so much that he'll sit here and listen to Roger make all sorts of stupid excuses and not hang up on him, even though he knows that's exactly what he shouldn't be doing.

Especially as Roger starts talking about Beijing, asking Stan if he remembers.

If he remembers―as if Stan could forget.

"I've been thinking about that," Roger starts to say, and Stan can't keep listening to this, he has to say something. Anything.

"Look, can we just... Just forget it, okay?" They can pretend, can't they? For Mirka's sake. For Ilham. "It doesn't have to mean anything. I'm sorry I ever brought it up."

There. Roger has his excuse now, and Stan waits for him to say "All right" and let the conversation die. Let this―whatever this is―die and be forgotten. He doesn't even know why Roger is calling when selective denial would be so much easier for all of them.

But Roger says, "I want it to mean something," and Stan suddenly feels like laughing. Roger always wants it to mean something, because everything in his life has meaning, like some great story penned by the hand of divinity. Beautiful, ineffable. Perfect.

Like him.

Stan rubs a hand over his face, thinking this must be what madness looks like.

"Do you really?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," says Roger, "because I love you, too."

And there they are, those words―words he shouldn't be hearing. None of this should be happening. Roger isn't supposed to call him at ungodly hours of the night, demanding a soul-baring conversation, and Roger definitely isn't supposed to say things like that, because...because he just isn't supposed to.

"Don't say that."

Stan doesn't even realize he spoke out loud until he hears Roger reply, "What?"

 _Don't say that_ , Stan thinks again, _because you've always loved him._ It's a universal constant by now, like gravity, like the speed of light. He's already accepted it, come to terms with reality. So then why does it hurt to even think those words?

"You still care about him," Stan hears himself say. "I know, all right? So don't say that to me―"

"Stan―"

 _Don't._ "Just forget about it―"

" _No_." Roger is the one to cut him off this time. "Stan, listen to me―" and the last thing Stan wants to do is listen to him go on with this nonsense, but he can't block out the words, "―I care about him, and I'll probably always care about him, but I care about you more, because _I love you_."

No. It's not true, Stan thinks, because Roger will always leave in the end, so it can't be true. It can't be true, but some part of him still wants to believe those words, like he used to believe in fairytales and shooting stars―wants to believe so badly that he can feel a scream rising from somewhere in his chest, prickling at the corners of his eyes.

And Roger is saying, "I love you, Stan. Won't you believe me?"

Stan tries to hold back these pointless tears, because this will never work out, there's a reason stories stay in books, and Roger _isn't supposed to say that_ ―but it's no good. He can only shake his head, gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles turn white, his voice trembling, "This is not going to work, Rogi. We can't... It'll never work."

"We'll make it work," Roger says, because of course Roger would say that, even though he shouldn't, even though he knows Stan can only listen to his voice, helpless, "I love you. I love you, and I won't take no for an answer."

This is insane, Stan thinks for what must be the millionth time. This can't be happening; he must be dreaming. But the moments pass, breathe in breathe out, the phone is still solid in his hands, and he can tell without looking that outside the sun is setting, its dying flames kindling the stars, one by one.

And he wants to believe―god, he _needs_ to believe, because he's too old for fairytales now, so what else does he have?

"Please, Stan..." Roger's voice is so soft, so so soft, like an echo from his dreams.

Something breaks inside him, then, spilling into words:

"I love you," Stan says, his voice so choked up it's almost unintelligible, "oh god _I love you_ I love you I love you..."

-

The next day, Roger loses to Andy Murray. Stan reads the report online, at an internet cafe, along with another article about the great Federer-Nadal rivalry. He gets a text from Mirka: _I'm glad you two finally worked it out. :)_

Ilham calls him late in the afternoon.

"Come home," she says quietly.

He gets back just before seven, rings the doorbell even though he has his keys. Ilham opens the door, holding firmly onto the collar of a hyperactive Hercules who is trying his best to jump up and lick Stan's face.

They stand on the steps for some time, Stan petting Hercules' head, Ilham just watching him. Eventually, Stan clears his throat. "So..."

Ilham meets his eyes, but doesn't smile. "I ordered take-out for dinner."

There's a slightly awkward pause as Stan searches for a reply. "That...sounds good."

Ilham says nothing more, just opens the door wider and calls Hercules back inside. Stan follows them, suddenly feeling like a guest in his own house.

They eat dinner in complete silence, Stan barely noticing what's on his plate. It all tastes the same anyway, like some sort of soft cardboard. Ilham opens a bottle of wine, but there's absolutely nothing romantic about the atmosphere.

He can feel his cell phone pressing against his hip through the pocket of his jeans, and belatedly hopes that he set it to silent―before remembering that it's probably three in the morning in Shanghai, so it doesn't matter.

They sit at the table afterwards, finishing off the rest of the wine, not looking at each other. Hercules comes and lies down on Ilham's feet; she scratches him behind the ears.

"I bought a futon for the study," she says suddenly.

It takes him a moment to understand. "...Oh."

"It's a little cramped in there now, but not too bad. You can go take a look if you want."

She glances at him then, as if daring him to get up and survey his new living arrangements. Stan can't move; he feels glued to his seat. He has to swallow twice before he's able to get the words out.

"Why are you doing this?"

Ilham studies the grain of the table, fingers tracing faint patterns that only she can see. After a long pause, she says, "You're still seeing him, aren't you."

It's not a question. Stan swallows again. "Yes. I'm s―"

"You're not sorry, so stop saying that, okay?" Her words are bitter, but her voice just sounds tired. "Look, I wish I could just tell you to get out and be done with it, but I can't, because the tabloids would want to know why, and I don't hate you enough to put you through that hell." Stan cringes. Ilham swishes the dregs of her wine around the glass, and adds in a softer voice, "Roger Federer maybe, but not you."

He can hear the unspoken clause, "Even though I kind of deserve it?"

Ilham makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "Even though you kind of deserve it."

"We can't do this forever," Stan says after another stretch of silence.

"You're on the road nine to ten months a year. I'd say those are some pretty good odds."

"But―"

"I'll figure something out, okay?" Ilham reaches down to pet Hercules again, not meeting Stan's eyes. "Find another boyfriend or something. That'll give us a legitimate excuse to break up."

She's trying to keep her tone lighthearted, but Stan can hear the pain behind every word.

"Ilham," her name feels strange on his tongue, though he's been saying it for so many years, "Ilham, I'm sorry."

"I told you―"

"I'm not sorry for...for Roger, maybe, but I am sorry for doing this to you." The words sound trite even to his own ears, but at the moment, he has nothing else. "I never meant to hurt you."

Ilham is silent for a long time. "Maybe not," she says, "but you did anyway. So what's the use in apologizing now?"

Stan has nothing to say to that. The conversation dies.

When the silence becomes unbearable, he gets up and moves to clear the table. But Ilham tells him to leave it, that she'll take care of it later. So he takes his backpack and heads to the study―now his bedroom―but at the door he hesitates for a moment, turning to look back at Ilham.

She's still sitting at the table, the remnants of dinner laid out before her, Hercules dozing at her feet. The wineglass is empty in her hands, and her hair falls forward, obscuring her face like a veil.

 _I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for everything_ , he thinks, and wonders if she'll ever be able to forgive him. If he'll ever deserve to be forgiven.

-

"Come to Dubai," Roger says.

"When?"

"Tonight. I already booked you a flight."

He tells Ilham over a late breakfast of store-bought pastries (the toaster has mysteriously disappeared). She doesn't even look up from the newspaper, just asks him how long he'll be gone.

"A few days," he guesses.

She says nothing more, and they leave it at that. Stan spends the day packing and repacking his one duffel bag, trying not to think too much about Roger and utterly failing. Ilham locks herself in her room after lunch, turns up the radio, and leaves him to deal with Hercules' whining.

He takes Hercules for a walk before leaving for the airport. The evening is cold, but not altogether unpleasant, and he feels a bit better afterwards, a bit freer, the clean fresh air still filling his lungs.

Hercules keeps trying to lick his hand as Stan scratches his ears on his way out the door. A strange sadness grips him as he whispers, "Bye, Hercules."

The plane ride takes the whole night, but Stan sleeps through most of it, and when he wakes up, it's already morning in Dubai. He goes to the restroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, emerging just as the flight attendants are reminding everyone to fasten their seatbelts for the landing.

There's a cab waiting for him outside the terminal, as Roger promised. Stan watches the city recede through the car's windows, pulse quickening a little more with every block that passes by, drawing them closer.

Roger is waiting outside on the steps when the cab pulls up. He's wearing a white polo shirt and khaki pants, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, as if he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. The smile crinkling his eyes is almost shy.

"Hi," he says.

Stan feels the corners of his lips curving upwards in response. "Hey."

Roger tips the cab driver, who seems to know Roger rather well and is being pointedly nonchalant about this whole thing. Stan wonders if he's made this trip before, and how often. But he pushes those thoughts aside as the cab drives away, and Roger walks with him up the steps and through the lobby. They take the elevator to the top floor, Roger standing close beside him, their hands brushing together.

"Have you had breakfast?" Roger asks conversationally as they step into his flat.

"Not yet." Stan takes off his shoes by the door, drops his bag beside them. He looks around for a moment, hesitating, before he asks, "Where's Mirka?"

"She went to visit her family for a while."

"Ah."

They look at each other for a long moment, Stan fiddling with the strap of his bag, Roger chewing on his bottom lip, considering.

"So..." Stan begins to say.

But he gets no further than that, because Roger erases the distance between them in two steps, brackets Stan's face with his hands and kisses him. The duffel bag falls to the floor with a faint _thump_.

When they finally break apart, Stan's arms are wrapped tightly around Roger's waist, and they're both a bit out of breath. Roger leans forward until their foreheads are just touching, and Stan closes his eyes again, an inaudible sigh escaping his lips.

"Stan," Roger says, "Stan, I missed you so much."

Then they're kissing again, lips and teeth and tongue and soft little noises that make Stan's knees feel weak. Roger's hands trail down Stan's back, skimming his sides and slipping under the fabric of his shirt, seeking bare skin. Stan doesn't quite manage to bite back a moan.

Roger pulls back, swallowing visibly. "We should get breakfast first," he says, and the suggestion sounds entirely too logical for Stan's liking.

"Later," Stan amends.

Roger looks as if he wants to disagree for some reason. Stan can't imagine why―until Roger says, "I didn't ask you to come here just for that," and his eyes are so sincere that, for a single heart-stopping moment, Stan can only think, _He means it._

 _He really means it._

He doesn't know whether to laugh, or cry, or maybe both.

"What?" Roger has a worried look on his face. "What is it?"

Stan shakes his head. "Nothing. Just..." He hooks his fingers around Roger's belt and pulls him closer, eliciting a surprised gasp. Stan smiles up at him, "I missed you, too, you know."

"Oh," says Roger, looking a bit dazed. But then an answering smile touches his lips, and he tightens his arms around Stan's waist. "Oh."

-

They end up having toast and coffee at around noon, after Stan spent an hour trying not to laugh while Roger wrestled with a recipe for pancakes. (There were only three ingredients. It went horribly wrong anyway.)

The day is bright, but not too hot, so afterwards they take a pitcher of iced tea out to the balcony. The city spreads out beneath their feet, and a jewel-bright sea sparkles in the distance.

Roger pulls two chairs up to a round, glass-top table. They sit together, elbows just touching, two glasses of tea between them. A slight breeze is blowing in from the west, stirring Roger's dark curls, and Stan almost can't bear to look away.

They talk about tennis for a while, carefully avoiding certain names, before switching to safer grounds―like movies and books and the latest annoying songs being played on pop radio. They talk about cars, about day trips and the places they want to visit, places they've never been to, places they'd like to see again. They talk about Basel and Lausanne and San Francisco. Roger tells Stan about the chain letter Andy Roddick sent him a few days ago, and Stan laughs.

When it gets dark, they go back in, and Stan cooks pasta while Roger heats tomato sauce in the microwave. Roger leaves the light on in the dining room and they eat outside, finishing the rest of the now lukewarm iced tea.

After dinner, Roger turns off the lights. They stand at the balcony railing, shoulders bumping together, the city lights winking at them from below, mirroring the stars in the sky.

"Look," says Roger, "a shooting star."

Stan looks toward where he points, just in time to see a thread of glittering white disappear over the horizon. "I think you're supposed to make a wish," he replies.

"I never know what to wish for, though."

Stan smiles. "Maybe you should wish to know what to wish for."

Roger laughs at that. He slides his arm around Stan's waist, presses a soft kiss against his hair. "Or maybe I already got my wish," he whispers, and Stan closes his eyes, learning this moment by heart.

Then, "What about you?" Roger asks. "What would you wish for?"

 _What do I wish for?_

Stan looks out into the nighttime, scanning the heavens with his eyes. He listens to the faint sounds of traffic drifting up from the street, and thinks of Ilham in Saint-Barthélemy, Mirka somewhere in Schaffhausen, sheltered under these same glowing stars.

He thinks of plane rides and hotel rooms, of chasing the seasons around the world, never quite catching up. He thinks of the way summer fades to autumn, and how quickly the face of all the world is changed.

He thinks of how getting somewhere is the easy part, but it's the day-to-day living that is hard.

And he says, "I wish that you won't leave," his voice so soft it's almost lost to the breeze. "That, when I wake up in the morning, you'll still be there."

A pause, a silence, and Stan counts his heartbeats: one, two three. Then he turns his head―and Roger is watching him with a look that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Gently―so very gently―Roger leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

"I think I can do that," he says.


End file.
